kid stuff

All The Things

So today, in addition to hopefully running to the post office and finishing whatever didn’t get done over the weekend, and getting wordcount in after a few days of just working on whatever catches my fancy, I should also put together a mini-greenhouse for starting the herb garden. Oh, and there’s a run to get out of the way, too. And stealing a few minutes to knit on the current project, and piano practice, and…

You know, maybe I should just go back to bed? That’s the problem with DOING ALL THE THINGS, just the mere thought of it is overwhelming. Added to all the cleaning I got out of the way yesterday, it’s a wonder I don’t need a weekend to recover from my weekend.

Or maybe I do.

In any case, it’s sunny, and I’m trying not to look at the news in order to keep my sanity. There’s also a clutch of emails that landed while I was out-of-office.

*eyes to-do list*

Uh, yeah. Maybe I’ll have to reprioritize and get some of this done tomorrow, for that is anothah day. And I didn’t list one of the really important things, which is looking at the Little Prince’s bicycle to see if I can fix it. I’m not sure if the rear brake cable has snapped or if it’s something to do with the lever on the handlebars, or whatever. And since I shifted to a smaller vehicle, loading it up to take it to a shop isn’t really an option, even if I could afford to. This will either be an easy fix once I eyeball the problem–in which case a victorious Instagram will be in order–or I’ll end up covered in bike grease and crying with frustration.

…yeah, I’m definitely going to push some of the to-do-list to tomorrow. Choices, choices, choices.

Be Okay

I was on a long ramble with B, and came across this a few miles from home. This little tree is just outside the front of an elementary school. I don’t know who decorated it, but it was dolled up in time for Yule, through New Year’s, and through the Snowpocalypse too.

I can’t explain the deep flash of hope and happiness that went through me when I saw it. Miss B, of course, was only interested in sniffing around the roots, but I stood there with my eyes full of tears for a few minutes, somehow certain things were going to be okay.

Funny what a few silly ornaments and childlike wonder will do, ennit.

Stump Cake

A lot of schools have gotten rid of what we used to call Home Ec–classes that teach all sorts of useful skills, from how to wash a goddamn dish to basic sewing. the replacements have either been nothing, or a variety of class meant to turn kids into effective fast-food workers, mostly by having them work in the lunchroom. Which is all sorts of OMG.

The Princess’s high school, however, actually has quite a good program to teach kids basic kitchen etiquette and use. It was a revelation to her, finding out so many of her classmates had no idea how to handle a knife or clean a stove. She and the Prince have been in the kitchen with me their entire lives, either watching or helping out in whatever age-appropriate fashion they could. My experiments in cooking, once I got over my own childhood fears and angsts, no doubt helped. It was kind of weird, seeing how few kids knew even basic things, like how to cream butter and sugar. There are reasons for that, of course–wage stagnation means cooking at home is more of a time-drain than even many two income households can afford.

One of the interesting things the Princess learned was how to make a variety of Stump Cake. The teacher valiantly tried to instill some aesthetic and pastry-making basics into a group of teenagers, but finicky fondant was (and is) a nonstarter for that age group. However, the basic idea–FOUR LAYERS OF CHOCOLATE CAKE! EAT IT WITH YOUR CHAINSAW FINGERS!–is intriguing enough by itself to make the stump cake a frequent project around these parts.

The Princess had Monday off from work, and had brought home cocoa. Needless to say, after her leisurely lie-in and brekkie, she began mixing, baking, pouring, and making parchment-paper frosting cones to practice her piping. The result was SO. MUCH. CHOCOLATE. CAKE.

I know, I know, a great problem to have. I’m pretty sure my blood’s been replaced by pure syrup. I REGRET NOTHING.

Friendly Roses

ketchup

A rose is a rose is a rose. This one is on the ketchup-and-mustard bush, planted in our side garden for the Princess’s best friend. They are said best friend’s favourite type of roses, and the bush is stubbornly refusing to go dormant. Instead, it took advantage of the warm first half of November to bloom again, in utter defiance of good sense or caution.

The Princess says this is only to be expected from her best friend’s rosebush. Her friend is bold and fearless, whereas the Princess serves as a cautionary voice. This is incredibly amusing, because my own bestie is my cautionary voice. (And she refers to me as the devil on her shoulder, so it’s all even.) It’s hilarious to see genetics flip so thoroughly.

Friends are good. Take care of them. Send them pictures of their roses, too.

Punkin Games

punkins

“No, Mum,” they initially said. “We’re too old for punkin-carving this year.”

Then the Princess found out she had the Great Day off work, and the Prince found out the Princess had decided to carve one because she would be home, and the Princess furthermore let me know she LOVES the way I roast punkin seeds, and where the hell were the several pieces of punkin-carving kits I’d bought over the years anyway?

Answer to the last: under the stairs, with all the other holiday decorations, the place I thought I would NEVER forget to look. I did forget, and it was the Princess who found them.

As usual.

Things change, as the passing years remind me. But just as many things stay the same, world without end.

Amen.

Adulting

what i do The Little Prince is beginning to fall into a school-morning routine, with only the usual and expected amount of teenage grumbling. The Princess, bright and shiny as a new penny, is settling into her first job.

That’s right, my baby is gainfully employed. It was a pretty painless process, since she’s fearsomely organized and cheerful. (No, I don’t know where she got that from. I am as mystified as anyone else.) I am still agog that the squalling bundle pulled out of me eighteen-ish years ago is a productive adult. For making it up as I go along, maybe I haven’t parented too badly. Of course, any credit goes to her for being a wonderful human being from the get-go. I’m just glad I didn’t mess everything up. When I was eighteen, I couldn’t wait to escape. It’s pleasant and wonderful that the Princess actively wants to stay home. To her, this is a safe place, and I am glad.

School has been such a thing for so many years now that it’s kind of weird not to be sending her off each day at the usual time. It’s also weird to be adding adult things to the relationship–things like her taking over some of her own filing and paperwork, or shifting communication protocols now that she doesn’t have to check in with me about her location as frequently. We’re both pretty conscious that these things are changing, and most days it’s easy enough to keep up. Every once in a while, though, one or both of us needs a hug and some deep breathing.

Who am I kidding? It’s mostly me. For so many years you guard your child’s every breath, and the process of easing up as they grow into an adult works against that habit something fierce. This is all new for her, taking her first steps into the world she’s hopefully pretty prepared to make some headway in. I have to remember to slow down and take things I’ve been doing for decades–balancing a checkbook, say, or knowing how to jockey a bureaucracy–and break them down into easily digestible components for her. I mean, I’ve always done that, but the process has accelerated a bit of late.

The Prince, of late, is also changing. He’s no longer the baby, being Fourteen and All Grown Up Now. Seeing his sister take on some of the trappings of adulthood means he needs to bump his nose against some boundaries just to be sure they’re still there, still cradling him. It would be frustrating if I didn’t understand how scary it is when you’re that age and things start changing rapidly. As it is, it’s damn hard to keep a straight face when he does the boundary testing.

Through it all, the writing flows, some days easier, other days harder. The book I’m working on now is taking its sweet time, and what began as a simple gift for my agent has turned into something I know I have to finish, just because. It was a method of saving my sanity between contracts, but now that I’m 30K in and there’s (still) no contract in sight, finishing is somewhat talismanic. My own version of a nervous tic. Each time life gets more complex, I turn to writing. Sometimes I think it’s to process, other times I’m pretty sure it’s an escape, and there are times I know the truth: that it’s a lifeline, and keeps me balanced when everything around me is shifting.

Now it’s time for a run, to sweat out the stress. Later it’ll be time to spin a whole world out of whole cloth, from my brain to my fingers and onto the page. Last but not least, to hug both my children, no matter how grown-up they are. “Mom hugs are the best hugs,” the Princess tells me.

“Even when you’re a legal adult?” I ask.

“Especially then,” says she. And hugs me harder.

School, Quiet

Well, school has started for one-half of the children a la Chez Saintcrow. The Princess is graduated, so it’s just the Little Prince September-scrambling to get every duck in a row. Fortunately, we have enough leftover school supplies to equip a whole army of teenagers. Except a binder. A one-inch binder. I didn’t happen to have one lying about, so it was ambling through the doors of the office supply store at opening this morning to pick one up.

On the way I saw a man vomit a truly amazing volume of liquid onto the parking lot. I would have stopped to ask if he was all right, but he wiped his mouth and walked away quickly, in a straight line. So…I’m guessing he felt better?

Today there’s a long run–Miss B will be upset because she’s not allowed to come along–and a few emails I’ve put off sending. Then it’s more work on Harmony, which I will probably finish in spite of myself, and give to my agent as a gift. I spent a pretty productive hour yesterday, while waiting for the Princess who was in a job interview, sketching out the Harmony compound and listing the different people involved in the group. That sort of noodling adds depth and richness to one’s imagined world, but it’s so very easy to mistake that effort for actual writing work. One can end up with binders full of ephemera and no book. There’s no substitute for doing the damn work.

The neighborhood is very quiet since the kids have gone back to school. Especially in the evenings. I am unsure whether the incidence of broken glass on park paths will go down. Half my regular running routes are unsafe for Miss B’s paws. I’m not quite shaking my cane and yelling “YOU DAMN KIDS,” but it’s…close. Oh, how time flies.

So, in the new quiet, I’ll run, and breathe. And marvel at time flowing ever onward, as one is wont to do when one has survived multiple years past one’s expectancy.

Over and out.